


a grace too powerful to name

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Forgiveness, Season/Series 02, Team Bus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Over the course of several months in Vault D, Grant gets a series of visitors and surprises.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 10
Kudos: 109





	a grace too powerful to name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).



> First of all, this is a Christmas gift for the wonderful, spectacular JD. I hope you had the merriest of Christmases, sweetheart! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Second of all, this is pulling double-duty as my WEEK FIFTY TWO FIC!!!!!!!!! That's right! I ACTUALLY COMPLETED THIS HORRIBLE CHALLENGE. I can't even, y'all. I can't believe I did it. Sometime next week I'll make a tumblr post with my stats from the challenge - I'll link it here once it's up.
> 
> But! Don't let my challenge win distract you from the point of this fic, which is that JD is the bestest and I love her lots. Merry Christmas to her and to all of you who celebrate - and a happy Friday to the rest of you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

Twenty minutes after Grant finishes his morning workout, the barrier on his cell abruptly clears. He’s not facing it when it happens (he was making his bed, just for something to do), but he hears the change in the constant humming’s pitch that means it’s gone transparent.

When he turns around, he’s hoping for Skye but expecting Coulson.

Simmons is a complete surprise.

“Hey,” he says.

“Good morning,” she returns calmly. She’s settled in the chair outside his cell like she intends to stay a while, hands neatly folded on her lap. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Funny.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” he says, dropping to sit on the bed. “But I’ll interrupt _you_ before you even start.” He puts some regret in his voice, hits her with the sad eyes and apologetic frown. “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer your questions. I’m only talking to Skye.”

Simmons doesn’t even blink.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” she says. “But while I do have questions, they’re not why I’m here.”

“No?” he asks.

“No,” she says, and then takes a slow, deep breath. There’s a little hitch in the middle of it, like either she’s got some kind of injury or she’s about to cry. (Or both.) “I forgive you.”

Grant nearly chokes on a breath of his own. “I—what?”

“I forgive you,” she repeats. Her voice is calm and even. No sign this is some kind of joke or trick.

But _why_? The last time he saw Simmons was months ago, when she came down in the middle of the night to swear at him and threaten murder if he ever even looked sideways at any member of the team ever again. She was furious—literally shaking with how much she hated him.

He had a plan for that, of course. But he hasn’t put a single second of work into her since that night—even if he’d wanted to, he just hasn’t had the opportunity. So what’s changed?

Well, you never know unless you ask. “Why? What’s changed?”

She takes another one of those slow, deep breaths, with a hitch in the exact same place. More likely an injury than tears, then—something with one of her ribs. But now that he looks closer at her…tears don’t seem out of the question.

Simmons looks tired. Tired and gaunt. Haunted, even. She’s obviously been through _something_ recently—something that changed her perspective on him.

“I…”

Grant keeps his silence as she hesitates. She’s obviously teetering on the edge of something, balanced on an emotional precipice, and it’d be too easy to push her off it. He doesn’t know enough about what she’s been doing, what she’s feeling, to know what he’d be pushing her into, so he doesn’t dare risk it. He just waits her out rather than prompting her to speak.

After a good three minutes and another few deep, hitching breaths, she finally does.

“I went undercover,” she says. “In Hydra.”

“You _what_?” Grant has literally never heard _anything_ that stupid before. “You _can’t lie_ , Simmons.”

“I’m getting better,” she says, more than a little woodenly. “And we were desperate. And I…”

She stops again. He waits.

“I didn’t understand before,” she says finally, voice distant. “When you said it was nothing personal, I thought it was just…an excuse. A poor one, and a hurtful one.” She swallows. “I didn’t know, then, how you could befriend someone—even care for someone—and still hurt them. Or allow them to be hurt.” She takes a quick breath, almost like a gasp. “Because the mission takes priority.”

“And now you do,” he says, a little more softly than he means to. It’s hard not to be affected by her state, by the thousand-yard stare she’s aiming more at his feet than at him.

“Now I do,” she agrees, and this time the hitch in her breath _is_ tears. “So, yes, Ward. I forgive you. I’m still _angry_ , but…I forgive you.”

Hearing it this time is less of a shock, which means he actually gets to enjoy it. He gives himself a moment to savor it—to just drink in the recently rare experience of having someone look at him with literally anything other than hate and fear. It’s not as nice as the way she _used_ to look at him, with practically literal hearts in her eyes, but it’s still a hell of an improvement.

“Thank you,” he says, once he’s had his moment. “And…I’m sorry.”

Simmons looks wary. “For what?”

“As much as I appreciate the understanding,” he says, “I’m sorry you had to find it the way you did.” This time, the regret he lets into his voice is real. “It’s a hard thing to do, even with years of training. Without it…”

“Yes, well.” Simmons sniffs and wipes one hand quickly, casually along her cheek. Not before he spots the little tear that slipped out there, but he’ll let her keep her dignity. “That was all I wanted to say.”

That sounds like she’s about to leave, and suddenly, Grant can’t bear to let her. This is the first non-hostile conversation he’s had in _months_ ; he’s just not ready to have it over this soon.

So before she can stand, he says, “Well, while you’re here, I might as well answer those questions you have.”

Simmons pauses. “I thought you were only answering questions for Skye.”

Yeah, for all the good that’s done him. This—right here, what Simmons just gave him with zero effort on his part—was what he was after. Understanding and forgiveness and an even semi-friendly face. He just thought Skye was his best bet for it, in light of the connection they’d already started to build.

But explaining that might put Simmons’ back up, so he thinks he’ll keep it to himself.

Instead, he says, “Yeah, but I can make an exception for a fellow Hydra agent.”

Simmons scoffs and rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the tiny smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Even small as it is, it lightens her whole face—makes her look that much less haunted.

Grant awards himself a bonus point and resolves to make her smile at least four more times before she leaves.

(But he’s always been an overachiever, so he’s not surprised he manages five.)

***

A few days later, Coulson comes down to ask Grant some questions. Half-hearted questions, of course—he’s long since given up on getting answers from Grant, and it shows in his every word. It’s just Coulson’s natural stubbornness that keeps him coming down here, going through the motions, even though he _knows_ Grant’s just gonna say he’ll only talk to Skye.

As such, his face when Grant actually answers his very first question is _really fucking funny_.

“Excuse me?” he says, stunned.

His mouth is actually hanging open. This is hysterical.

“Forrest Goodwin,” Grant repeats patiently. “He’s nothing special, but Whitehall’s always favored him for some reason. If he’s got a hit out, Goodwin’s who he’ll send.”

Coulson stares at him like he said Whitehall preferred Kermit the Frog for his assassinations.

Grant takes a few good minutes to really treasure his face, then prompts, “Was that your only question?”

Still looking dazed, Coulson slowly sinks into the chair. Over the course of the next hour, slowly at first, but gaining more confidence as he goes, he asks another twenty questions.

Grant answers them all. Honestly, even.

(He tells himself it’s just for the entertainment value, switching up his play and watching Coulson flounder. He’s just gonna ignore how much it feels like a reward when Simmons shows up the next morning to thank him for the intel and ends up staying for hours.)

***

A few weeks later, he gets a mid-afternoon visitor. He’s expecting Simmons, who’s been dropping by sporadically for increasingly friendly conversations, and gets the shock of his life when it turns out to be Skye instead.

“Skye,” he says, kind of dumbly. “Hi.”

Even to his own ears he sounds very truly thrown, which is a bit embarrassing—he’s got better control than this. But he really wasn’t expecting to ever see her again, not now that he’s dropped the only-talking-to-her bit. He gets Coulson for questions and Simmons for the occasional company, and that’s all he’s anticipated for the foreseeable future. This is a curveball he didn’t see coming.

“Hi.” Face and voice equally tight, she drops into the chair. “So. You still suck.”

“O…kay?”

“Ugh,” she groans, dropping her head back. When she sits forward again, her frustration is painted all over her face. “You still suck—”

Still a little off-balance from her unexpected appearance, Grant really can’t stop himself from pointing out, “You said that already.”

“— _but_ ,” she says, with a dirty look, “I guess I kind of get it now.”

Well…that’s something. “Do you?”

“Yeah, well.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and even from here he can see how her fingers dig into her sleeves. “I, uh. I killed somebody.”

Grant’s mind races, putting the pieces together, but he doesn’t speak. The sudden anger that overtakes Skye’s expression tips him off it’d be a bad idea.

“Not just _somebody_ ,” she corrects herself. “I killed a brainwashed asset—kid. A brainwashed _kid_. He wasn’t even nineteen and he was _brainwashed_. What he was doing wasn’t his fault.” She blows out a breath, hard enough to ruffle her bangs. “But Coulson told me to pull the trigger, so I did. I didn’t even hesitate.”

First Simmons, now her. Grant wonders if they maybe accidentally wrote “confessional” instead of “cell” on the front of that door at the top of the stairs.

Still, as weird as this is, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate more understanding. Or that he doesn’t feel for her. Skye’s a soft touch, and she’s not a born killer, not like some. Her first kill was always gonna hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “First kill’s never easy, and for it to be a kid…”

“It’s whatever,” Skye says unconvincingly. “It was months ago, I’m over it.”

Sure she is.

“Of course,” he agrees placidly. “But then, why are you here?”

Not that it isn’t nice to see her face, but…it’s not like it was before. Back when he was insisting he’d only speak to her, when the first sight of her after months of asking was like finding water in a desert. After weeks of semi-regular visits from Simmons, he’s just not as starved for company anymore.

He’s not so relieved to lay eyes on her that he’s gonna ignore how weird this is.

And speaking of Simmons…

“I don’t know,” Skye says, “just, something Simmons said. It made me realize that…I did a horrible thing because I was ordered to. Because _Coulson_ ordered me to, and I trust him to make the right call.” She shrugs, shoulders stiff and defensive. “Guess I’m lucky Coulson’s worthy of that trust.”

“Or I’m unlucky that John wasn’t?” Grant guesses.

“Yeah,” she says, finally, really meeting his eyes for the first time today. “Something like that.”

***

Two days later, Simmons drops in to talk about her lab partner, Kenneth, and how she framed him to keep herself from being exposed as a mole. Grant lets her get it all off her chest, sympathizes, and offers comfort—all completely genuine—before, just as she’s standing to go, he brings up the elephant in the basement.

“So,” he says, “you talked to Skye?”

“I did,” she confirms.

“Why?” he asks.

Simmons stops behind the chair, one hand resting lightly on the back of it.

“Because I thought it was easier dealing with what you did if you were evil,” she says, “but it turned out I was wrong. Understanding your motivations—being able to see the logic in what you did—it helped.” She smiles, just a little. “Forgiving you helped more.”

“And you wanted to help Skye, too,” he surmises.

“Yes.”

Grant leans back on his hands, disappointed and not quite sure why. “Fair enough.”

“And,” she adds, even as she’s turning to go, “I wanted to help you.”

He has no idea what to say to that. Good thing she doesn’t wait for a response.

***

Fitz is the next to come down, a month of visits from Simmons and Skye later. Of course, he’s not defensive or haunted like the girls; he just looks annoyed. And, ominously, he’s got a tool bag slung over one shoulder.

“Get back,” he orders, waving an impatient hand at Grant. “Stand near the bed.”

The last time Fitz came down here, he nearly suffocated Grant. Grant retreats without argument.

When Grant is even with his bed, Fitz grunts his approval and picks up the tablet that controls the barrier. Grant tenses, taking in a nice deep breath just in case, but Fitz doesn’t suck the air out.

Instead, he taps for a few seconds, and another, closer barrier springs into existence, marked by orange light racing from one wall to the other.

“Uh,” Grant says. If this is some new punishment, it’s a pretty good one—the idea of his already small cell shrinking even further leaves him feeling more than a little claustrophobic. Still, he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it; he’s been cooperating for more than a month now. “Fitz?”

“Shut up,” Fitz snaps. “It won’t t-take long.”

That said, he turns the new, closer barrier opaque—and he must mute it, too, because Grant doesn’t hear anything else after that.

The ‘it won’t take long’ was encouraging, though—and everything else aside, he’s fairly confident Simmons wouldn’t leave him to a box this tiny. Not after the inroads they’ve made back towards friendship.

So Grant does some deep breathing, puts the sudden claustrophobia away, and waits it out.

An hour or so later, the new barrier falls away, revealing a strange opaque square in the middle of the old one. Fitz is just on the other side of it, packing a collection of tools and wires back into his bag.

“What was that about?” Grant asks. Cautiously, he approaches the square in the barrier, running his eyes over it in search of a hint.

“Entertainment,” Fitz says briskly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards the wall on Grant’s left. “Controls’re over there. You’ve got a library of ebooks. Enjoy.”

Sure enough, a tiny bit of padding has been removed from the left wall and replaced with what looks a hell of a lot like a TV remote. A bit of curious poking at it has the square in the barrier lighting up like a computer screen, presenting a list of options:

_Search by title_

_Search by author_

_Search by genre_

_Randomizer_

Grant…could honestly cry. He’s more than a little afraid this is some kind of cruel prank, but a quick test (search by author, Grisham, select the first result) brings up what looks like a complete ebook—four hundred pages present and accounted for.

After months of darkness and boredom, it’s overwhelming.

“Thank you,” he says, and really, truly means it. “But…why?”

“I crossed a line,” Fitz says, begrudgingly, to his tool bag. “You deserved it, but it was w-wrong. Mm.” He nods to himself, a little jerkily. “Shouldn’t have done it. So…sorry.”

He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds annoyed.

Still, Grant’s not about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“Whatever,” Fitz mutters, and stomps away.

For the first time ever, Grant doesn’t watch his visitor leave. He’s too busy searching up a book to read.

***

Simmons drops by the next morning—just briefly, she says, as she has a mission to go on. She ‘just wants to check in’ before she leaves, apparently.

Grant closes out of _The Frozen Hours_ and gives her a long look. “I take it you talked with Fitz.”

“Yes, frequently,” she agrees innocently. “We’re best friends, you know.”

“Uh huh,” he says. “Well, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, already turning to go again. “We’ve been violating the Mandela Rules for months. It’s honestly embarrassing.”

“Right,” he says, and watches her depart. It’s a long time before he gets back to his book.

***

Grant’s not stupid. He knows he’s in danger of fixating on Simmons. Between her frequent visits after his months of isolation, the understanding she offers him, the push she’s given the others to accept him, and now the entertainment she’s delivered him via Fitz…

It’s a lot for a guy to take in, especially after losing nearly everything. Anyone would be vulnerable to her pretty smiles and her wry humor after all that.

If he were smart—if he were _strong_ —he’d harden his heart against her and tell her to stop visiting.

But he’s always been weak to attachments, as John could attest if he weren’t dead.

Grant keeps his mouth shut and waits for her next visit.

***

Five weeks after Fitz installed the book screen, Grant wakes in the middle of the night to find May outside the barrier.

“If you hurt them again,” she says, voice low and deadly, “I _will_ kill you. Slowly.”

Piece said, she turns and heads back up the stairs before Grant’s even recovered from the shock of her appearance.

“Good talk,” he calls after her, but he knows it’s weak.

***

Grant’s breakfast comes at seven on the dot every morning, brought by a rotating cast of randoms. He’s gotten to know them all over the months, by names and quirks both, but that’s the only reason they’re familiar faces. In all his time in this cell, he’s never once had someone he knew before his imprisonment bring him his breakfast. May’s sole visit happened sometime around three am, and she’s the only other morning person on the team. The others don’t surface before nine unless forced.

As such, it’s something of a surprise when the door opens at seven one morning to reveal not Ramirez, Wolowitz, or Feehan, but Coulson.

“Sir?” Grant’s already on his feet, since he was expecting breakfast, so there’s nothing he can do but stand and watch as Coulson descends the stairs. “Is something wrong?”

Coulson doesn’t have breakfast. A pit opens in the bottom of Grant’s stomach.

“Kitchen catch fire?” he jokes, playing it cool.

“No,” Coulson says. “And no, nothing’s wrong.”

He picks up the tablet and taps at the screen for a moment. In the center of the barrier, just beside the book screen, a small hole opens up.

“Stick your arm through,” Coulson orders.

This has happened once or twice before, when he was recovering from his suicide attempts and his stitches needed checking. But Coulson’s not a doctor or a medic and Grant doesn’t have any stitches right now. It’s with a heavy dose of concern that Grant obeys.

To his surprise, Coulson draws a thin silver bracelet from his pocket and snaps it around Grant’s wrist.

“Sir?” Grant asks.

“You don’t have a calendar,” Coulson says, “so you might not realize it, but it’s Christmas Day.” He hits the tablet screen again, and the barrier flashes orange and then…disappears. Not just stops flashing, it’s _gone_. His book screen has vanished and even the constant, maddening humming has stopped. “Merry Christmas, Ward.”

“I—what? Sir?”

“Your cooperation hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Coulson says. “We’re not ready to trust you just yet, but we’re ready to give you a chance.” He nods to the bracelet. “That’ll keep you out of the labs, hangar, and armories. Don’t test it.”

Grant can’t even think. He can barely speak. “I…I can leave?”

“You can come upstairs,” Coulson corrects. “Come celebrate Christmas with us. Whether you spend tomorrow upstairs or down here, well, that depends on you.”

His heart is racing, pounding in his ears. He actually feels unsteady on his feet. Slowly, carefully, for the first time in…what, eight months? Grant steps over the yellow line on the floor.

“No trouble, Ward,” Coulson warns.

“No trouble,” he promises. His voice shakes a little, but Coulson is kind enough not to comment. “Not even a little.”

“Good,” Coulson says. “Come on, then.”

Even as he follows Coulson up the stairs (carefully, with one hand against the wall for fear his weak knees will fail him, because he’s _actually going up the stairs_ ), Grant knows he’s lied. Just a tiny one—a little white lie to spare Coulson some pain.

He was always like a father to the kids on the Bus, to the girls especially. And the thing is, it might be Coulson calling the shots here, but Grant knows exactly who’s behind all this. The same person who opened the door to him in the first place: who first offered understanding, and then pushed the others to offer the same. This little field trip was definitely her idea, and it had to have taken some serious convincing to get everyone else on board.

That kind of effort deserves some real gratitude, and Coulson won’t wanna hear that Grant’s sure to cause trouble when he gets Jemma under the mistletoe.


End file.
